


Punk Rock Never Hurt Anybody

by spacegee



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Agender!Cas, Alternate Universe - College/University, Bassist!Cas, Cas is in a band, Mild Sexual Content, Non Binary!Cas, Other, punk!Cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-11 21:52:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5643220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacegee/pseuds/spacegee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Yeah? And how do I know you won't kill me?"</p><p>"I won't."</p><p>Cas nods. "Very reassuring. John Lennon was killed by a fan."</p><p>"I'm not a fan." Dean shrugs and Cas stares suspiciously, blue eyes cutting through the dark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Punk Rock Never Hurt Anybody

There are plenty of reasons why it's always a shock to strangers that Sam and Dean are brothers. First of all, and the most common exclamation, is that they look absolutely nothing alike. Sam, with his floppy dark brown hair and towering six-foot-too-much height looks like a puppy on his best days while Dean; a dirty blonde with pretty green eyes (so everyone just loves points out) and a splatter of freckles across his cheeks, resembles something less cuddly on his best days and more flirtatiously charming. And it's not to say that Dean can't break out an adorable grin. In fact, it's the exact opposite. Dean just, without any sort of admission whatsoever, enjoys the 'brooding' schtick. The dry comedy, the pursed lips, the vintage cars, the rock music. It's all part of his charm, he insists.

And that leads to the second major difference between the two Winchester brothers. Despite them both loving rock music, they're able to get into different genres. While Dean enjoys his classic Led Zeppelin records, Sam hoards mid-1990s, early-2000s _Blink-182_ punk vinyls.

It's a clear distinction, at least in Dean's book, as Dean doesn't believe in any music unless it's been made with the blood, sweat, and tears of the mid-1900s. He grew up on that stuff—Sam did too, but somewhere along the way he locked himself in his room and started playing _Green Day_ on full volume—so there's a kind of childhood attachment to Physical Graffiti and The Wall.

It with this distinction that has Dean grumbling beside Sam the Friday night after Christmas as they wait in the long line that stretches outside of some venue several miles from Stanford. Dean had come to visit Sam for winter break and Sam duly gifted him with two tickets to see a band called _The_ _Garrison_. And with a quick Google search, it had been evident that one, skinny jeans are very big in modern punk rock culture and two, they are not Dean's type. The gift hadn't really been a gift at all, but more of Sam's way of pulling his older brother along for a concert that he knows full well he won't explicitly enjoy.

So yes, Dean is sulking. But no one around him, not even Sam, cares in the least bit. It's eight at night, it's the night after Christmas, and it's forty degrees outside yet the jittering amongst the crowd seems to somehow generate enough warmth that no one seems bothered by the cold. It's a diverse group too, with boys and girls and everyone in between, of every age, shape, make, and size. On the venue itself there is a banner ticker with the rolling white letters:

**TOSCHE STADIUM PRESENTS: THE GARRISON. WITH SPECIAL GUESTS: ABADDON, BELA TALBOT...**

He looks away as Sam snaps in his face once, twice, and Dean scowls.

"Dude, line's moving," Sam says, gesturing to the wide space between him and the person in front of them. Dean grumbles and shuffles forward.

"I want to go home," he says a-matter-of-factly, but Sam pays him no mind. He's forgotten about him and is talking animatedly to a pretty dark-skinned girl in the line next to them, and Dean catches words like 'guitar' and 'Milton.'

Dean can't help but wonder way he's even here.

I'm the next twenty minutes, they get to the front of the line and present their tickets to the man waiting right inside of the building. He looks gruff, as if he really didn't want to be there, and Dean really sympathizes with the guy.

After enduring the bustle of the crowd, Dean and Sam find their seats quickly (and thank God they're not in the pit because that would've been an entire other story) and there's numbing chatter throughout the stadium for ten minutes, until the lights drop and the show finally begins.

And Dean doesn't hate it per say. The music is a little abrasive and the lyrics can get a bit angrier than he's particularly used to, but the people in the stadium love it. They — including Sam, scream the lyrics as if it's their last night on Earth and the air-instruments are out of control. Sam nearly smacked him in the face when trying to air-drum because, in addition, to real drumming, Sam Winchester cannot fake-drum.

There also seems to be a universal trend in the crowd, and that is the undying screams of Castiel ( _Cassiel? Casteel?_ ) throughout the entire fucking show. Dean has no real idea who this 'Castiel' person is or why everyone is chanting their name as if it's completely necessary to live, and with a mini questionnaire thirty minutes in that seems to annoy Sam more than anything else, he learns that the dude is the bassist.

And then Dean understands.

He's good. With too many bands, the bass goes out soft spoken or completely covered by the loud riffs of the double guitars. But in The Garrison, the man playing the Fender bass left-stage clearly knows what he's doing, and in several songs the bass is the headline, keeping a low, smooth rhythm throughout.

And sure, Dean notices his appearance. How could he not, the guy is way hotter than he has any business being. Truth be told, Castiel embodies the 'punk look' that Dean has always managed to annoy the hell out of him, but he'd be a fucking liar if he said that the dude didn't look good. Tattoos and piercings are enlarged in the big screen to the left of the stage as the camera focuses on him, dark brown hair that might have been some semblance of neat when the show had first begun. And despite the look, Castiel has a quiet countenance to him, staring down at his bass the entire show as he moves around his section of the stage, a small grin playing at the corner of his mouth.

And when he finally does look up? The eyes.

Dean isn't always an eye-person, never really taking care to distinguish between the colors of the irises but damn. Even from their seat several rows behind the pit, Dean can see the stormy blue shade, glittering with an unnamable emotion every time Castiel glances up.

The concert is over much too soon (and Dean mentally kicks himself for somehow caring so much) and everyone begins to file out after The Garrison leaves the stage. If Sam notices any change in Dean's attitude, he doesn't say anything, and simply babbles on about Charlie Bradbury, who is apparently the band's new drummer after the old one, Uriel, quit. According to Sam, and sure Dean is half-listening, no one knew what to expect from the fresh-faced high school dropout and she completely blew everyone away.

As they wind their way through the halls, the pair find the main lobby. But before Dean can follow the crowd out of the doors from which they first came, Sam grabs onto his sleeve and jerks him back.

"Hey!" Dean exclaims, exaggeratedly brushing off the side of his leather jacket. Sam rolls his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest as he peers down at his brother.

"You obviously weren't listening when I told you I got us meet-and-greet tickets."

Dean perks up at that tidbit of information because no, he hadn't been listening and yes, he sure as hell is now.

"Really? What does that—" he clears his throat as his voice goes an octave too high. Sam stares at him as if he's grown a second head. "What does that mean?"

"What do you think it means, smart-ass? _Meet and greet_." Sam enunciates the words just for Dean and Dean has the sudden urge to punch his little brother in the mouth. Lovingly so, of course. "I know you don't like them that much, so if you think you won't be able to control your offensive comments, you can just stay in the car until it's over. Ivy, the girl that I was talking to before, said that she didn't have a meet and greet pass and I'm sure she'd love one." Sam breaks out into a grin and Dean must be losing it because he swears he sees the first few digits of a number partially hidden up the sleeve of Sam's jacket.

"No, no, it's fine," Dean quickly amends and perhaps it was a little too quick because Sam raises a suspicious eyebrow. Dean just shrugs and Sam rolls his eyes once more before turning around and walking down one of the hallways where a less-dense crowd is traveling.

The hallways lead to a room where the four band members are sat at a long table. They're flanked by four irritable-looking security guards who seem like they don't take any kind of shit. Take a picture, let them sign something, and get out, is what their near-grimaces say and even Dean is a bit intimidated.

The line moves slowly but smoothly, and they're so near the front that they only wait ten minutes until Sam is stepping up in front of Anna Milton and grinning stupidly.

"I'm Sam and this is my brother Dean."

Anna smiles politely and issues a kind 'hello' to both of them. Dean half-waves awkwardly, not really knowing what to do with his hands as Sam pulls a CD case from his pocket and slides it across the table for her to sign.

Dean sees Castiel before they even get near him. He's at the very end of the table, sitting by the aforementioned drummer—Charlie—and signing something for the girl standing in front of him. He leans up as she turns to take a selfie, aiming the phone camera at both of them. The shutter goes off once both of them smile and, before the girl can scurry off, Castiel presses a kiss to her cheek—and woah, does everyone get one of those?

Anna slides Sam's album down to the next member: the guitarist that Sam greets by Raphael. She smiles up at him and is kinder than she looks, though she does seem a little weary of, well, everything. She signs it promptly and shakes his hand before giving the album to the newbie.

Charlie is bright and talkative, and initiates a selfie with Sam (actually, both Sam and Dean because she inevitably pulls the latter in an embrace that's just a little on the wrong side of awkward over the table). Dean sees Castiel watching them intently, twirling his pen through tattooed fingers (and God, does he have nice hands) while he waits for the two of them to approach.

Castiel is somehow even more attractive up close. Both of his arms are covered in ink, right up to his nails (Dean briefly notices that his right middle finger is painted with black nail polish), artful sleeves exposed by a black muscle shirt (and Dean definitely doesn't note that the arm holes are large enough to allow sight of a ringed nipple, because wow). His hair is a complete mess from the show and falls atop his head in odd, glorious angles. And those eyes are locked on his unwaveringly, and Dean feels as if his stomach is trying to travel up his throat.

Dean mentally nudges Sam toward Cas and somehow the universe grants his silent wish, as Charlie passes the album to Castiel and he grins up at the both of them.

"Good evening," he starts, and his low voice manages to resonate through the chattery room.

 _Damn_.

"Hey Cas," Sam replies easily, and Dean's gaze snaps to him in confusion to the recognition. Then he remembers: this is who Sam listens to on a daily basis. He watches interviews, concerts on YouTube. Dean has the fleeting thought that despite only just meeting them, or only meeting them in controlled environments such as these, Sam knows them. "I'm Sam and this is Dean, my brother."

"It's nice to meet you," Castiel—or rather, Cas—says and it sounds overtly sincere. "So, who am I making this out to? One or both?"

"Oh, just me," Sam pipes, and they both watch as Cas writes something out with the Sharpie in neat script on the back of the record and finishes with a quick signature. Dean expects that to be it, until Cas' eyes turn back to him. He swallows.

"And am I signing anything for you today?" His gaze is almost teasing, mouth quirked and head cocked. He drums his fingers on the tabletop and continues to stare as Dean is taken completely off-guard and looks ridiculously lost. The answer is no, but he sorely wishes it were yes. But he realizes he's got the next best thing in his pocket and fishes his phone out.

"No, but I would like a picture."

Sam looks rightfully surprised and raises both eyebrows as Dean turns away from the table and leans back until the small of his back hits the edge. His phone is outstretched and through the screen camera, he can see Castiel propping himself up with his hands planted flat on the table. He can smell how close he is, taking an overwhelming whiff of peppermint and vanilla aftershave.

"Say cheese," Dean says, blandly, because it's all he can say without chickening the fuck out and feels a light brush against his cheek as he snaps the picture. And he freezes, because no way he saw that right in the screen, sometimes things are manipulated with angles and shadows and whatnot, but with the tap of the taken photo at the bottom left hand corner, he clearly sees Cas' lips on his cheek and much too close to his own lips.

Dean spins around, clears his throat, and even then the thank you comes out as a high-pitched squeak. Cas looks on with an amused smile.

He and Sam leave the room, and Sam's face is the pure countenance of shock and confusion. He doesn't say anything though, thank God because Dean wouldn't know how to explain his erratic behavior without incriminating himself. As they leave he building, Dean realizes that the third song of the set—bass-heavy and strong—is stuck in an unending loop in his head.

Once they get to his Impala outside, he raises Back In Black to one hundred percent volume.

* * *

Dean is ashamed to say that after dropping Sam at his dorm, he drives the hour or so to the venue and parks outside of the building.

He's completely lost it. He doesn't know what to do; he hasn't had a celebrity crush (he guesses that's what this is) where he sees them in person the first time he actually seen them. It's too close to it being a regular crush that way, and perhaps that's why he's gone the complete creeper route and is sitting in his Baby, hands clenching the wheel and foot ghosting over the gas just in case he freaks out and leaves to his motel less than an hour away.

Dean is high on Cas, and he knows it's fucking stupid but he can't help it. He can still feel those lips on his skin, and damnit if simply the thought of that doesn't make him just a tiny bit hard.

Dean doesn't even know his plan as he pulls the car into park and unbuckles his seat belt. He's got no way of knowing that Cas is even still here after two hours, or that Cas won't shout for security as soon as Dean comes striding along.

He still climbs out of his car though and walks up to the premises before stopping and staring around. He probably looks lost, and loitering is most likely illegal here, but he's never been this desperate for attention. It's a little sad, actually.

Dean doesn't have a lot of explicitly-named friends. Back at Kansas U, there's his roommate Victor. And there's Jo, of course, who he's been friends with for his entire life. Being around campus, there's a few others, but that's generally it. He's never idolized actual people before (well, perhaps with the exception of Dr. Sexy and Matt LeBlanc) and maybe that's just what this is. He runs a frustrated hand through his hair and listens to the voice in the back of his head that's just saying 'Go home' because he's sure that's the sane thing to do.

Before Dean can comply though, a hand clamps down on his shoulder and he spins around in surprise.

"Why are you standing in the cold?" Castiel asks as he looks up at Dean, breath condensing the air. Dean, of course, has no real answer and stands dumbly for a few moments before countering:

"Why are you standing in the cold?"

Cas peers at him, bringing his arms to wrap around his torso even though the pea coat he's wearing must be keeping him warm already. "My ride is late. Wait..." He pauses as he squints up at Dean. "Are you the fan from earlier? Um, Dean?"

Dean is taken aback at the mere fact that Cas remembers his name out of the crowd of people he had also met before. He laughs airily, cuts his hand through the air in a sharp gesture. "Oh, well, I'm not a fan."

And that came out more insulting than he'd intended.

"Really?" Cas cocks his pierced eyebrow. "You seemed pretty eager to take that picture, though."

Dean blushes scarlet and rubs at the back of his neck. "Yeah, well..." He pauses, and thinks of a way out of the line of questioning. His solution isn't exactly perfect. "Did you say that your ride is late? I'll take you.

The suggestion sounds stupid, even to Dean's ears.

"Yeah? And how do I know you won't kill me?"

"I won't."

Cas nods. " _Very_ reassuring. John Lennon was killed by a fan."

"I'm not a fan." Dean shrugs and Cas stares suspiciously, blue eyes cutting through the dark.

"I'm fine, I'll wait."

Dean sighs exasperatedly. "Come on. It's just about midnight, and it's thirty degrees and dropping. I'm not going to kill you. You can text whoever you need to text. You're taking a ride with Dean Winchester, 22 years old, attends Kansas University, license plate number KAZ 2Y5."

Dean doesn't have time to wonder when he got to be so bold because then Cas is glancing back at the theater before sighing and nodding tentatively. "Okay. Okay."

"Okay." Dean spins on his heel and a breath he hadn't realized he was keeping in escapes his lungs in a rush. He can feel Cas following on his heels as Dean crosses the Impala to open the passenger's door for him. Cas climbs in, but not before sending an unreadable look at Dean.

Dean shuts the door and rounds the car to the driver's side. Once they're both settled in, Dean turns on the engine and his Metallica cassette blasts through the vehicle. The sudden noise makes Cas jump and wipe a hand over his face.

"Jesus Christ. I was at least half asleep before that."

Dean hums nonchalantly and reaches over to lower the volume. "Where to?"

"The Marriott on Hudson."

Dean stares at him blankly, and Cas' features dawn with understanding. "Oh yeah, you're not from around here. You're a Kansas farm boy." Dean scoffs. "We played a couple of shows around KU earlier this year."

"Really? You guys gonna play there again?"

Cas raises his brow and splays his left fingers on the bench between them. There's a letter on each individual knuckle, but Dean can't tell what it says. "I thought you weren't a fan."

"I'm not. I'm curious."

Cas leans back in his seat, but his hand stays against the upholstery. "So you're telling me that if we were to return to Kansas, you wouldn't come see us perform?" His bottom lip sticks out in a pout and he bats his eyelashes exaggeratedly.

Dean's positive that he would, especially after this encounter. But he's not admitting that. "That depends."

"On what?"

"If I'm free. If I want to go."

"Oh really?"

Dean is vaguely aware that the air in the Impala has somehow shifted drastically. He breathes slowly. "Really. I'm a busy man."

Cas chuckles, soft and low. "I bet you are." He stares at Dean for a while before continuing. "I don't know you, but you're hot and I kind of want to kiss you right now. Is that alright?"

There's a sharp intake of breath and Dean hardly has the chance to nod before Cas is taking his chin in his fingertips and pulling him across. Cas' lips are soft and yielding against Dean's, moving in slow patterns that has Dean's heart pounding against his rib cage.

And then they're gone, and Cas is back at his side of the bench, all the way by the passenger's seat's door. It takes Dean embarrassingly long to recover, and he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before asking, "Do you do that with all of your fans?"

Cas throws him a knowing smirk and taps his fingers against his thigh to the beat of the Metallica song playing. "I thought you weren't a fan."

"Tease."

"I know." Castiel grins. "Take a left at the intersection ahead."

Dean groans and actually pulls his Impala out of park this time, driving down the emptying road and following the directions Cas shoots at him every few minutes.

In no time, Dean's pulling up at a fancy Marriott hotel near downtown San Francisco. Cas' goodbye is short and informal, and leaves Dean more than a little frustrated. He nearly drives off as soon as the passenger side shuts, but Cas had rounded the car and taps the driver's window with an indication for Dean to roll it down.

"You're cool," Cas starts and Dean frowns.

"You don't know anything about me."

"You own a car from the sixties, you listen to Metallica, you're a good kisser. You're like a hot middle-aged man."

Dean's not sure how to reply to that, so he doesn't. He doesn't have to anyway, because Cas continues.

"Here." He pulls out a pen from the pocket of his leather jacket and takes Dean's hand in his. Cas scribbles a few digits along the inside of his wrist and smiles down at Dean with none of the flirtatious intent from before. "Call me sometime, we'll hang out. I'm here through the third of January."

"Okay." Dean pulls his hand back in and stares down at the number written in the same neat script that marked Sam's The Garrison album.

Cas kisses him once, chastely, on the lips before backing away from the curb and turning to walk toward the golden revolving doors.

* * *

Dean doesn't call Castiel the next day. Nor the next. Nor the day after that. In fact, he hardly does anything but rewrite the number on the back of an old envelope in his car and stare at it.

He's having a hard time really believing he'd actually met Castiel. And no, it's not because of the fact that he's a bassist in a quasi-famous band, because Dean hadn't really known him long enough before to care about that. No, it's more of the fact that good things don't normally happen to Dean Winchester. And if he'd had to categorize it, meeting Cas has got to be a Good Thing™.

Dean's not a recluse. Really, he's not, and it's not by his bidding that he's mostly got shitty friends at college and such an extremely small and Frankenstein-esque family. And once you put together everyone who actually means something in his life — Sam, Bobby, Jo, Ellen — the rest of the space is filled by a nauseating sense of loneliness that he absolutely loathes having.

And he's not saying that Cas will somehow make it all better, because he barely knows the guy and he's not even sure Cas remembers him after all of these days of pure radio silence. But he's nice, and cute, and so what if Dean has developed a bit of a crush?

Sam has definitely noticed that something's up. He doesn't say anything about it, but Dean can tell with all of the long looks and prying eyes that he's suspicious of something, and that makes him queasy. Because Sam is the logical one out of the two — another reason why most people don't think that they're related — he'd be quick to comment on how irrational Dean's being; that Castiel is virtually untouchable and he's just kidding himself.

And maybe he is, but no one has told him that yet so he doesn't fully believe it.

At night, in the privacy of the motel that he's staying at, Dean finds himself doing more research on The Garrison. However, this time, it's more centered around Castiel Novak. He mostly searches photo shoots and interviews, and he learns some things about the man that he definitely hadn't known before.

For one, Cas has clinical anxiety and speaks on it during many of the band's interviews. Dating back to a couple of years ago (three, or four) when the band had just been starting to take hold, Cas had seemed jittery just talking about it and generally uncomfortable. The redhead, Anna Milton, usually managed to him down with an assuring side hug or a whisper of something unheard into his ear.

As the years passed, however, Cas was able to talk about it without looking sick, speaking openly about past experiences and how he's learned to adjust to the periodic oscillations and fluctuations with how bad the attacks and reactions are.

Another large topic of conversation surrounding Castiel had been gender identity. As admitted in interviews, there'd been a lot of discovery and experimentation as a teenager and during the beginning stages of The Garrison. From the ages of eleven to seventeen, Cas had identified as a girl, which caused an extraordinary riot in his conservative household. James Castiel Novak was his birth name, but he'd started going by Cassie instead and his religious parents were furious. They pretended it didn't exist, and in turn pretended she didn't exist, and that was the extent of what Castiel was comfortable telling the public.

Around the time he graduated high school and started playing bass, Castiel started identifying as non binary, or more specifically agender instead (Dean had to look that up, as he wasn't familiar with the term) and told everyone that he was fine with the pronouns he and his, or they and their. An interview question that had been frequently used a while ago had been whether or not the exception of she and her pronouns had been due to the dysphoria, transphobia, and emotional abuse he'd experienced while identifying as a girl during his teenage years.

Castiel's never changing response? Fuck off, that's not how it works.

In other interviews, Cas is joking and lighthearted, in a shy and reserved sort of way. He doesn't speak unless imperative or if he has something funny or relevant to add to the conversation. He really is beautiful, even without all of the ink in the earlier interviews. He had dyed his hair blue at one point, matching the color of his eyes perfectly, and there was a video in which he explains the meaning of all of his tattoos. Dean doesn't watch that one though, assuming he'd grow the balls to text Cas soon and he'd be able to find out in person.

He reads odd little tidbits about him too: Castiel is the name of the Angel of Thursday. His favorite color is teal. His birthday is in April. He's not religious, but he is a firm believer in a good burger (not ham though; he's allergic).

Dean's sitting on the bed of his motel room with his laptop propped on his lap, at night, the day before New Years' Eve, when it really hits him. He misses Cas, and it's ridiculous.

Dean wonders how many times he's referred to him as a man in his head, or dude and guy in a completely non-gender-neutral sense and he feels nauseatingly guilty.

He finally picks up his phone, scrolls to the contact labeled 'Castiel' and sighs deeply as he texts:

**This is Dean from Tosche. R u doing anything tomorrow night?**

Dean hardly has to wait two minutes for the reply, and it takes him off guard how swiftly it comes even in the middle of the night.

**You finally texted. I thought I had scared you off.**

At this point, Dean thinks that they couldn't if they tried.

**I didn't think you'd remember me.**

The reply is fast coming.

**I couldn't forget you. Not with those lips.**

Dean blushes, deep and scarlet even though there's no one around to see him. He's not sure what to send back, but he doesn't have to think for too long because Castiel sends another text.

**Yeah, I'm free. Meet me at room 325 at the same hotel you dropped me at before @11 pm.**

Dean smiles to himself.

**I'll be there.**

He tosses the phone to the foot of the bed and flops down on the bed, staring up at the dark ceiling with a stupid grin. It's a while before he feels the vibration resonate along the mattress, and just about lunges for the phone when he does.

**Good.**

* * *

It's New Years' Eve and the streets of San Francisco are packed.  
~~~~

Dean's not even sure what all of the people are waiting for. It's pure loitering, teenagers with their friends walking along the sidewalks, adults finding a restaurant to eat at. The anticipation for 2016 is high and clouds the air with joyful shouts and light laughter.

Dean doesn't drive all the way into the city. Instead, he drives maybe a mile or two from the Marriott and parks in a garage downtown by ten thirty so he can walk the rest of the way. It's beautiful out here, with all of the lights and tall buildings and none of the country solitude that's found in Kansas. He can see the Golden Gate from here, with a little squinting, and the accompanying bay.

He's at the hotel by ten fifty-five, and on the third floor by eleven. He secretly hopes he's not too early, that Cas isn't one of those people who say one time but really mean ten minutes after. But surely enough, after three short raps on the door marked 325, it swings open.

Cas presents himself sweaty and tired, a faded Galactic Empire shirt clinging to his chest and ripped skinny jeans unbuckled and halfway down his hips. He's also wearing eyeliner, which is a completely different look in person than in the pictures Dean's seen online. No piercings though, as if he chooses one or the other, makeup or jewelry, but never both. Dean raises a silent eyebrow, directed mostly to his slung jeans, and Cas curses under his breath as he quickly pulls up his pants and redoes the fastening.

"You're right on time," he says, pushing his damp hair from his forehead. Dean notes that it's kind of gross but also oddly kind of cute. "I thought I'd have at least five minutes to take a shower and be less disgusting."

"I can come back," Dean slowly suggests, but Cas shakes his head and steps aside to usher him into the hotel room.

"No, it's fine, you're already here."

Cas closes the door behind the two of them and Dean quickly glances over the room. It's a standard hotel suite, if not a little larger, with a single queen-sized bed, a TV, a desk with a coffee maker, and a bathroom.

"Make yourself at home," Cas calls to him as he disappears into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Dean's not really sure how to do that, so instead he paces over to the bed to glance at the bass strewn over the duvet. Dean recognizes it immediately: a precision bass, a '50s Fender Classic Series. It's beautifully made and kept, the lacquer coating the gold and black body shiny and smooth, and not a scratch on the maple neck. Dean also knows that the thing is very close to a thousand dollars, so he's careful not to actually touch it.

"Did you have a show or something?" Dean asks, loud enough for Cas to hear in the bathroom. The door reopens and he comes out with a washcloth scrubbing at his face, black eyeliner smudged across his cheeks.

"Yeah, for New Years' Eve down by the bay."

"I wish I'd have known — I would've come."

Cas cocks an eyebrow and puts the washcloth on the table. The makeup isn't gone, more smudged around his eyes but it's not a bad look. "I thought you weren't a fan, Dean."

"I'm not," Dean replies, and he wonders how long it'll be until that's just a flat out lie. "I'm just interested."

Cas hums and grabs a towel to dry his hair with. He looks at Dean, side-eyed, and says, "You know, you can stop standing around awkwardly now. I don't bite." He pauses and grins. "Unless you're into that sort of thing."

Dean's positive he's red as he takes a tentative seat next to the Fender on the bed. He looks at it for a while, as if it's another guest in the hotel, subject to Cas' fluctuating flirtations.

Cas goes back into the bathroom before exiting moments later, closing the door in behind him and plopping in the chair in front of the wooden table.

"We've got room service and I have the prequel and original Star Wars movies in my suitcase."

Dean wrinkles his nose. "Eh, I'm more of a Trek kind of guy."

Cas pulls a face that's a mixture of horror and disgust, but then Dean starts laughing and he frowns. "You're teasing me."

"I am?" Dean feigns innocence, but nods anyway. "Star Wars is fine. What's your favorite?"

Cas eyes him closely because this is definitely the question that determines whether or not they'll be getting along for the rest of the night. "Empire."

Dean breaks out into a grin. "What do you know? Same here."

They end up ordering burgers and fries from downstairs, along with a bottle of champagne (it was either that or red wine and both Dean and Cas hate red wine), and they pop in The Empire Strikes Back. Every time the Imperial March comes on, Cas likes to make his own sound-effects (cue the Darth Vader respiration and _dun dun dun, dun d-dun, dun d-dun_ ). It should be annoying, but Dean finds it a little endearing and sometime before Vader captures Han and Leia, Cas moves the Fender into its case and sits beside Dean.

"I dressed up as Leia for Halloween when I was fifteen," Cas admits, fiddling with the edge of a pillow while his eyes are still glued to the screen.

Dean smirks knowingly. "Really? Resistance Leia or Gold Bikini Leia?"

Cas rolls his eyes and knocks Dean's shoulder with his own. "Perv." But a hint of a smile still plays at his lips. "A New Hope Leia. The buns, the white dress, the boots. My parents hated it."

"Probably because you could pull it off and they couldn't."

Castiel snorts, but the noise turns into a soft sigh. "You know, don't you? About my gender."

"I watched interviews. Are you mad?"

He shakes his head no and runs a hand over his face. "It all just gives me a headache, you know? Not enough people know what being agender entails, so the questions are all so...infuriating."

Dean purses his lips slightly before opening his mouth. "Can I ask you a question about it?"

Cas glances at him through his peripherals. "Is it a stupid question?"

"I don't know." And he doesn't. But he'd really like to know the answer.

Cas nods reluctantly. "Go ahead then."

"I know you already said that you like his and them pronouns. But I don't know, is there one that you just prefer over the other?"

He blinks at Dean as if he wasn't expecting the question and rubs thoughtfully at the stubble lining his chin. "I uh...them, I guess. I've never really talked about it, but being referred to as they and them makes me feel more gender neutral than his and him. I mean, his and him are perfectly fine, I just like the other ones better. Unfortunately, whenever people see that they can call me by a so-called 'traditional pronoun,' they jump at the opportunity. Gives them a chance to pretend I'm not who I insist I am."

Dean sees Cas' hands clenching at the duvet as they speak, so he covers their hand with his own and squeezes. "I'll be sure to refer to you as they and them, then."

And Cas gives him a soft look that completely melts Dean's heart, and they lace their fingers through his, the inked digits a stark contrast against Dean's pale ones.

The moment is broken by an explosion outside, and a wild burst of colors that can be seen around the beige drapes. Dean looks at the analog clock above the television set where the movie is still playing, forgotten, and grins.

"It's midnight. Happy New Years."

Cas smiles slyly. "Aren't you supposed to kiss someone at midnight?"

"Is that a thing?"

Cas mumbles something that sounds an awful lot like 'Shut up and kiss me' before pulling Dean in by the back of his neck and pressing their lips to his. It has none of the languid patience of the other night in the Impala, because they're in a hotel room, on an extremely soft mattress, and they both had maybe a little too much champagne so to hell if they both don't make the most of it.

Dean can feel the rough rub of stubble on stubble and revels in it, pulling Cas closer and sighing against their lips.

"Dean," Cas sighs and pulls back for a moment, biting their lip tentatively before decidedly climbing over Dean and settling down atop his thighs. They place their hands on the headboard above Dean's head and dive back in, licking at his bottom lip before moving to nip at his earlobe.

Dean groans and places his hands on Cas' waist. "You are a biter," he manages to get out, and feels Cas' smile against his cheek.

"Only if you like it."

Dean's ready with a witty comeback as always, but the remark is knocked out of him when Cas rolls their hips downward. "Shit."

Cas chuckles softly and draws another filthy kiss from Dean before pressing their foreheads together and focusing completely on the rhythm; the rough grind of jeans on jeans.

Dean's gone in an embarrassingly short amount of time, and they haven't even taken off any clothes yet. Dean's not sure if Cas even plans to, because with the way they're gyrating, the two of them aren't breaking apart long enough to strip out of their jeans anytime soon.

"Fuck," Cas moans out as Dean bucks up to meet each one of their rolls downward. Dean is gripping their hips as if he's holding on for dear life and Cas takes their right hand from the wall to hold on to Dean's left shoulder for better leverage. Their desperate pants fill the hotel room, louder than the forgotten Star Wars episode on TV, and Dean swears he's about to tumble over the edge before Cas' gyrating slows and they break apart.

It's a miracle, but it sure as hell doesn't feel like one.

"Wait," Cas says, smiling fondly at Dean's upset whine. They push his hair from his forehead with one hand and work the buttons of their pants with the other. It takes much too long for Cas to pull their cocks from their boxers, but Dean's head falls back against the headboard as he feels Cas take both of them in their hands and work their fist along the shafts, hand moving quickly as enough time has been wasted already.

"Jesus Christ, Cas." And Dean is coming in hot streaks across both of their shirts. Cas tumbles across the line shortly after, moaning out Dean's name in a mind of ecstasy and pressing messy kisses to his lips.

They stay there like that for a while, basking in the afterglow and peppering small kisses across each other's faces. It's only when the familiar, "I am your father," comes from the TV does Cas climb off and heads to the bathroom for a wet washcloth to clean both of them up. Dean lets them pull his shirt over his head and watches as they do the same to theirs. He really shouldn't be surprised when a whole new array of tattoos appear on their chest (and he wouldn't be surprised if their back is also inked), and he definitely shouldn't be surprised with the nipple ring he'd been able to see at the concert a few days before, but he most certainly is and Cas has amusement written all over their face.

"Down, boy. Another time."

After shucking off theirs and Dean's pants, Cas shuts off the television — they both know how the movie ends anyway — and takes off the lights, and climbs underneath the white duvet with Dean right next to them.

"Tell me about yourself," Cas whispers softly, and despite the fact that it's just about one in the morning, he does. He tells them about growing up in Lawrence, Kansas: his parents' divorce when he was twelve, his pet bunny, Snowball, when he was fifteen, getting into the college he always wanted to attend on a football scholarship.

He tells Cas about Sammy ("The guy you were with at the show?") and how he's the smartest one in their family and got in Stanford with a full ride on nothing but brains and dedication.

"Sammy's going to be a lawyer," he says proudly, and can see Cas' smile against the darkness. "He's gonna give the attorneys in LA a run for their money."

They fall asleep around two, and the only thing Dean can think about it that how Cas quickly turned from a Good Thing to a Great Thing.

* * *

Dean awakens the next morning to a face full of hair and an extremely loud knocking at the door.

Cas stirs against his chest momentarily, blinking blearily at nothing really before closing their eyes again and lolling their head back against an actual pillow.

Dean frowns and pokes at their side.

"Cas."

Nothing. He tries to shake their arm.

"Cas."

" _Whada ya wan_?" It's basically gibberish and Dean smiles stupidly. Cas is obviously not a morning person.

"Someone's at the door."

As if on cue, a female voice rings through from the other side of the hotel room's door. "Castiel, get your lazy ass up!"

Cas lets out an annoyed groan and covers their face with their hand. Propped up with his elbow sinking into the mattress and his cheek in his palm, Dean watches them with interested amusement. Cas peeks up at him from between fingers and Dean notices that the knuckles of those right fingers have the letters ' **S, D, A, Y.** '

"What?" They demand and Dean grins.

"You're cute in the morning."

"Castiel, I swear to fucking God if you do not open this door!"

"Wait, Anna, Jesus!" Cas shouts back and reluctantly moves to raise off of the bed.

And holy shit, there are tattoos on their back. An entire expanse of it, dark lines and shades that move over the lean muscles of their back and come together to form an elegant (and pretty badass as well, because Dean could only imagine the pain) pair of wings.

The wings disappear as Castiel grabs a shirt from their suitcase in the corner of the room and pulls it over their head. On a second thought, Cas grabs both of their clothes from last night and toss them into the hamper in the bathroom.

As Cas pads to the door, Dean's not completely sure what he's supposed to be doing. However, he knows he probably shouldn't be half-naked in bed when the lead singer of the band inevitably comes in, so he gets up and looks for an appropriate shirt in Cas' suitcase.

"Where were you last night?" The voice is even angrier when not muffled by an entire door. "Charlie, Raphie, and I were searching for you after the show and you just went AWOL. We had to do like five press interviews and shoots and explain why you weren't there!"

"That must have been so hard for you," Cas replies dryly, and just as Anna is pushing past them and into the room, Dean is pulling a soft grey shirt on. It's a little too small, but it does the trick.

When Anna catches sight of him, she's caught off guard and a flurry of emotions quickly cross her features. She easily settles on pissed. "Who are you?" She bites and Dean sees Cas roll their eyes from behind her.

"Anna, this is Dean. Dean, this is my sister Anna."

Sister. Huh.

"Hi." Dean tries for an award-winning smile and an outstretched hand, but Anna just glares at it hard enough so that it goes away. It definitely does.

"I'm so sorry about her," Cas apologizes, and drops back onto the bed. They cover their face with their arm. "She's cranky when she hasn't had her morning coffee."

Anna's still glaring at Dean. "Who are you?" She asks again, even though Dean is ninety-nine percent positive that Cas already answered that question. "Are you a fan?"

Dean grins cheekily, thinking a bit of humor would help the situation. Unsurprisingly, it doesn't. "Well, no..."

"Fucking hell, you're a fan!" She exclaims and rubs her face with a tired hand. "We're fucking fans now, Cas?"

Cas finally sits up and throws a hard glare at their sister. "Anna. Stop."

"This is how scandals start! What were you thinking?!"

"It's not like that Anna. Dean's my..." They exchange a long look with Dean. "Boyfriend."

Dean's eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but the word settles comfortably in his mind. He wonders what it takes for someone to be at boyfriend-status, and he guesses personal confessions and midnight frottage outta do the trick.

Anna's features soften at the term and she glances between Dean and Cas. "Seriously?" The question is directed toward Dean and he nods more surely than he'd expected.

"Yeah, I am."

Anna's sigh of relief reverberates through the room. She reaches over and slugs Cas in the arm. "I wish you would have told me you had a boyfriend! I'm your sister, I have to know these things."

Cas mutters an, "I know," but Anna's attention is already focused on Dean.

"So something to know about Cas here; they can be a real pain in the ass about most things, but literally just ignore them until they calm down and you'll be fine."

"Go away Anna."

Anna grins at Cas. "Look at my little brother, all grown up."

"You have five seconds. Five..."

"Okay, okay." Anna's hand are in the air as a sign of surrender and she backs from the room. "Don't forget, we're all going out for dinner tonight."

"Whatever."

She's out the door and Cas gets up to close it behind her. Once it's locked, they press their back to the door and stare at Dean sheepishly.

"I'm sorry about that."

"Did you really mean it? The boyfriend thing?" Dean clarifies and Cas turns red. It's adorable.

"If it's too early, I completely understand," they say, words coming out in a rush and Dean quickly shakes his head.

"No it's fine. I'm just glad there's going to be a 'late' part of this."

It's Cas' turn to smile. "You didn't think I'd want last night to be a one-off. I'd die."

Dean hums knowingly, and spreads his arms as Cas comes forward to cradle their body in them. "Sure you would."

"Okay, but..." They pull back momentarily to stare up in Dean's face. "Apparently you're a fan now."

Dean makes a face. "Am I?"

"You had better be!" Cas replies jokingly, and shoves at Dean's chest. He stumbles back a little with a wide grin on his face. "I'm gonna need you to admit that punk rock is alright."

"I don't think I'm that good of a liar," Dean teases and Cas huffs.

"I'm going to take a shower, and you're going to get ready to go out for breakfast. And by the way—" Before Cas enters the bathroom, they snatch their phone from the bedside table and pauses at the door. "I'm going to be playing Fall Out Boy on full volume."

And as they shut the door and Dean hears the muffled instrumental followed shortly by " _You're a canary, I'm a coal mine,_ " he figures punk rock isn't half-bad.

* * *

**_Three Months After_ **

"I haven't read an inch of The Scarlet Letter dude," Dean whines and Jo looks on with thinly-veiled amusement. "And we've got a content exam tomorrow. What am I gonna do?"

"You could have read it like everyone else," she suggests unhelpfully and takes a sip of her coffee. They're in the campus cafe and Dean has his copy of the obligatory novel open in front of him on the introduction.

It's not his fault really. The book was assigned with the syllabus at the start of the new semester, and Dean tried, he really did. He just couldn't get past the flagrant wording and annoying vocabulary and decided to watch the movie with Emma Stone instead. Apparently, it's nowhere near the context of the actual book.

"Just read the Sparknotes, it'll be fine," she assures him with a kind pat on the back of his hand and does little to hide her snicker. "I read that in eleventh grade, all you have to really know is the end."

"And what's happens in the end?" Dean demands, desperate.

"'On a field, sable. The letter A, gules.' Oh yeah, and everyone dies."

Dean's eyes shoot up at the familiar voice and further widen as his suspicion is quickly confirmed.

Castiel is striding toward them, paper coffee cup nestled in the cave of their right fingers.

Those fingers read, ' **T, H, U, R**.'

Oh.

 _Oh_.

He hadn't expected Castiel until the end of April or beginning of May, because The Garrison's Heaven Waiting tour doesn't let out until then. So he just about stumbles out of his seat and wraps his arms around Cas in an impossibly tight embrace. Sure, they've talked to each other over the phone, and they've texted, and they've video chatted nearly everyday, but just about nothing beats seeing them in person.

"Dean, I can't breathe," comes Cas' constricted voice from against his chest and Dean mumbles out an 'Oh yeah' before letting them go. He laced his fingers in theirs of course, and peers down at them with suspicious curiosity

"What are you doing here?"

"Nice to see you too," is their reply and they pull an empty seat from nearby to sit at the corner of their circular table. All the while, Jo stares at them with silent incredulity. Dean has talked about Cas a lot during the last couple of months and Jo has listened intently and with amusement at his excited tone everything he mentions something about them. However, he's never mentioned Cas with any context as to their musical background and Dean wouldn't be surprised if she was joined with Sam in their fascination of The Garrison. "We've got a show."

Dean raises his eyebrow. "No, you don't."

If he wasn't a fan before, he sure as hell is now. It's disgustingly sweet, really, but Dean doesn't care because the second week after he returned to Kansas he had all three of their records — vinyl and cassette (cassettes were a little more difficult to find, but he had anyway) — and at least one sweatshirt from their online store. Cas had laughed about it, told him that he didn't need to actually buy their merch if he was dating a member, but Dean had insisted regardless.

And in addition to his apparent materialism, Dean also knows when they're going to be in the area. The closest they're supposed to be coming for the rest of the tour is South Dakota, which is hardly even that close.

"Yeah, we do," Cas amends, and rubs their thumb along the the back of Dean's hand. "At a local bar a couple of blocks from here. It's a nice gig."

But Dean just smiles knowingly. "You wanted to see me, didn't you?"

A light shade of pink covers Cas' neck and tinges the tops of their ears. They rolls their eyes, but they're unable to wipe the smile from their face. "No."

Jo nudges Dean's foot under the table, throwing him a confused glare as she finally catches his attention. Dean chuckles nervously and nods once. "Oh yeah, Jo, this is Cas. Cas, Jo."

"Nice to meet you." Cas removes their hand from the coffee cup they'd been cradling and stretches it out for Jo to shake. The girl looks as if she's about to burst, and Dean's almost positive she's going to exclaim something like 'I love you!'

It would be just like Jo to do that, too. Always three steps ahead.

She settles for something a little less intense, though. "Jesus Christ, you're even more pretty in person."

Cas' brow shoots up in surprise and they rub the back of their neck sheepishly. "Thank you. I think."

"No, no, it's definitely a compliment," Jo rushes. She sends another glare toward Dean and he puts the hand not clasped in Cas' up in surrender. "Dean here just never told me that he's dating you. How'd you even find us?"

That's a very good question. "How did you find us?" Dean repeats and watches as Cas chuckles dryly.

"I've been wandering around this ridiculously large campus for the better half of two hours now."

Dean's eyes widen at that, his momentary shock replaced by a teasing grin. "So you did just want to see me."

Cas blushes a stark red, a new and endearing look on them. "Shut up."

"He never does." Jo smiles at the two of them, underlying expression indecipherable, before she's pushing at the table to stand up. "It was nice to meet you Cas, but I've got Econ in ten minutes."

"But you're supposed to be helping me with The Scarlet Letter!" Dean exclaims, suddenly remembering his task at hand. He stares down at the open novel and back up at Jo pitifully. She doesn't look the least bit fazed.

"I'll help," Cas pipes up, and turns Dean's minimal notes to read them. "I read this in eleventh grade."

Jo points at them frantically then glances back at Dean to give him an incredulous look. "You see!"

"Don't you have Economics?"

She sticks her tongue out at him and waves a polite goodbye to Cas before she's spinning on her heel and walking out of the cafe.

"Don't you have rehearsal or something?" Dean then asks Cas, who's now glancing over the book, flipping through the pages and stopping to read periodic lines.

"It's a bar, Dean, everyone will be too drunk to notice if we mess up."

Dean grins widely and ducks his head to steal Cas' attention from the book. When they look up, it's as if Dean's happiness is contagious.

"What?"

"I'm happy you're here," he replies warmly and brings their joined hands to press a kiss to their knuckles.

Cas' eyes are unwavering. "I know." They purse their lips and decidedly amends their statement. "I'm glad I'm here, too."

And all Dean can do at that point is kiss their enbyfriend stupid, reveling in that warm embrace he's missed for so long.

Cas isn't even a Great Thing anymore. They're an Amazing Thing, and the Best Thing to happen to him in a very long time. 


End file.
